


My Body Is A Cage

by merkuria



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Dom/sub, Impact Play, M/M, Painplay, T'hy'la
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merkuria/pseuds/merkuria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How was he to know being loved would mean having someone trust him to be carried to the edge and safely across it, in the palm of his hand and on the tip of his blade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Body Is A Cage

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Spock POV companion piece to [Blame It On The Black Star](http://archiveofourown.org/works/71360) (Kirk POV)
> 
> Betaed by the_deep_magic

There is no logic to the way he wants to hurt Jim Kirk. He looks down at what he’s done tonight, the welts, the bruises, and over it all the trickles of blood falling from the delicate shape of wings cut deep into Kirk’s back, blooming in vivid scarlet. The room is silent except for the quiet sounds Kirk makes, the haphazard rhythm of his breathing punctuated by something harsher, raw exhales that aren’t quite sobs but that make Spock want to break Kirk, hit him until all this beauty and strength is gone.

He doesn’t do it but the urge is strong, and even as he moves to the table to get the regenerator, he contemplates picking up any of the other items, the sharp, terrible implements that Kirk brought him mere months ago. Any of them would do the job and this, this thing would end.

Instead he goes over to where Kirk’s kneeling by the bed and touches his back, getting blood on his hands. The instant he does it he knows it’s a mistake because Kirk isn’t shielding, doesn’t seem to be entirely _there_ , and the emotions spill freely, like a dark, filthy river. Spock moves away like he’s been burned, but it isn’t fast enough, and he reads it, as clearly as if the word itself was carved into Kirk’s flesh.

_More._

***

They’ve done it three times so far. Three times Kirk came to his quarters, locked the door and knelt before him. Spock can appreciate the grace of the movement and the straight line of the captain’s body as it goes still, waiting. It is undeniably beautiful, but everything about it is wrong, the order and hierarchy of Spock’s world ripped apart within the space of a single breath.

 _Shameless,_ his mind prompts him. The way Kirk comes to him, openly wanting, asking to be hurt and always returning for more, it’s obscene. Spock doesn’t know why he lets it happen, why he allowed it to begin. He has neither excuse nor explanation for why he keeps silent when Kirk asks him if he wants to stop. It might just be because the belt feels good in his hand, the leather obedient as it paints Kirk’s skin red and blue, or that, for all its impropriety, the sight of Kirk’s naked body is deeply pleasing.

He doesn’t waste time pretending he’s unaffected. Kirk’s lips on his that first night brought chaos that no amount of meditation has been able to undo, and Spock resents him for that. He feels powerless and the humiliation only grows as he realizes that the next time Kirk comes knocking at his door he won’t have the strength to refuse. With Kirk at his feet there will be no resisting, only the burn of golden skin and the desperate need to take back control.

Pain, he finds, works best, for as long as they both can stand it.

***

By now Spock’s familiar with all of Kirk’s body. His skin tells a sordid story of violence and brutality, old scars that testify to Kirk’s wasted youth scattered freely over his torso and legs, ugly. Spock touches them all, equally drawn and repulsed by the disorder. He doesn’t understand why Kirk never got rid of them. It’s a simple enough procedure, if a little unpleasant. It’s only when he runs his lips along a pale line along Kirk’s spine that he realizes it’s too precise to be anything but done on purpose. _Kept_ on purpose.

Although this shouldn’t come as a surprise, the realization is inexplicably nauseating. Spock knows he’s not the first one, Kirk’s collection of gear enough to tell him that, but the scar under his tongue makes it real, _personal_ , and he’s not prepared for the anger it sparks. He wants to know who did it, if Kirk asked for it, if he begged the way he does when Spock takes him far enough. Above all he wants it gone, tonight. He had other things planned but this can’t wait. Forgoing the anesthetization setting on the regenerator should hurt enough, he reckons, enough to satisfy. _Enough to punish_ a voice in his mind adds.

As he reaches for the device he can feel Kirk looking right at him and for the briefest moment Spock wishes he would veto this, maybe stop it altogether before they cross that line. All he gets though is Kirk watching him, smiling, and hanging his head low in submission. The most dangerous creature Spock’s ever known.

***

He’s a scientist and his methods are sound. Kirk may have his body, a deadly and pristine instrument, but Spock has figures and diagrams, the laws of physics and chemistry on his side. He will have the facts.

He soon learns Kirk’s temperature doesn’t rise much until the lashes come steadily one after another. His skin is quick to turn purple, then blue, but it takes time and effort to break it. After, the first drops of blood feel like a well-earned prize, as do the tears _._ Spock can feel them on his knuckles. He would lick them off of Kirk’s skin, but there are few pleasures greater than the look on Kirk’s face as he’s backhanded, so it will have to wait until later.

He knows the theory, but this is nothing like the anatomy classes at the Academy. The books do not speak of the texture of skin, the golden warmth that entices him to touch and smell. He is not prepared for the kaleidoscope of patterns that come alive under his hand, the bruises that change and re-align themselves too quickly for him to memorize, too thrilling.

Spock’s not sure what he expected. The data he’s collected explains little; if anything it only serves to confuse further. He set out to measure and quantify, yet somehow seems to have lost direction. Instead of a map he’s now left with little more than a study in want, a chart of his own desire, with no algorithms to help him understand.

Through all this Kirk invites him to take and take more, and Spock finds himself unwilling to go off this path. He imagines the stern face of his father judging him for his imprudence, the _you should know better_ implied in the slant of his eyebrows, but then there’s a knock on his door and it doesn’t matter anymore.

***

Jim Kirk is his captain. On the bridge they work as they always have, an efficient command duo leading the Enterprise through the deep space. In the chair Jim cuts an impeccable figure, not a crinkle on his uniform, but Spock knows that underneath the fabric there’s a bruise on his left leg, and a scar right above it, a fading memory of a buckle. The skin’s almost healed but Jim will have to wait some days still before Spock has him kneeling again. They do not play if there are any marks left.

It’s a new rule, one that Spock felt necessary for the nights without the regenerator, and Jim is not happy but he obeys, just as he obeys in all things after the doors to Spock’s quarters close behind him. Once inside Jim’s body language shifts, the edges softening as he relaxes. He barely speaks unless made to and the contrast to his usual persona is yet another source of pleasure.

Spock enjoys making them both wait so he has Jim come to his rooms to be undressed and inspected, to touch and kiss the welts and scabs while Jim shivers under his hands. Jim’s never cared about hiding his desire and Spock likes him like this, helplessly hungry, a murmured _what would you have me do_ enough to provoke a full-body tremor. He protests when told to put the uniform back on and go, _that will do_ , promises to do anything to be allowed to stay. Some nights Spock acquiesces because denying oneself on principle is illogical; more often than not Jim’s pleas are met with a firm _you will do as I say_ because obedience is his due and he will be listened to. Because the kiss he takes from Jim before sending him out tastes all the sweeter. 

_***_

There is nothing special about the day Spock realizes he’s in love, just as there was nothing special about the one he realized he liked hitting Jim. It doesn’t change anything. His love is not for telling and he doesn’t need words to show it. He has knives instead, to draw as he pleases, ropes to wrap around Jim’s body, needles with which to pin it to his skin.

He never thought loving would be this easy. As Jim opens up his body and mind to him Spock doesn’t want to wait, this is his. He whispers _t’hy’la_ , but isn’t sure Jim can hear anything over the sound of his own gasps and half-words, over the colours he sees bursting in Jim’s head.

How was he to know being loved would mean having someone trust him to be carried to the edge and safely across it, in the palm of his hand and on the tip of his blade.

***

Spock doesn’t need to meld to know how distressed Jim is after the incident. It’s irrational, of course, there was nothing that could have been done differently; still, the burden of the command weighs heavily on his shoulders. Jim is strong and brilliant but telling him that would accomplish nothing. He’s never responded well to words.  

Spock can tell it’s going to be one of those nights. They won’t play with any of the toys or gear. It won’t be about the pain or pleasure but about keeping Jim here, in the present, using his body to give his mind a measure of peace. Jim’s standing maybe two steps away, a bloody mess in a soiled uniform, already getting calmer with every minute of anticipation. Spock waits for the words because they have to be said, a small offering to silence the doubt that sometimes resurfaces at moments like this.

When it finally comes, the quiet “ _Do it_ ”is barely above whisper but it rings loud in his ears and all Spock can think of is how much more there is for them, out there in the dark space, here, where his captain is waiting to be hit, and in his heart where love rules unchallenged.

And then they begin.


End file.
